He sat with bent brows gazing at the table as Mrs. Chalk, her face wreathed in triumphant smiles, began to discuss yachting costumes and other necessities of ocean travel with the quivering Mrs. Stobell.  Unable to endure it any longer he rose and, in a voice by no means alluring, invited Mr. Chalk into the garden to smoke a pipe; Mr. Chalk, helping himself to two pieces of cake as evidence, said that he had not yet finished his tea.  Owing partly to lack of appetite and partly to the face which Mr. Stobell pressed to the window every other minute to entice him out, he made but slow progress.

The matter was discussed next day as they journeyed down to Biddlecombe with Mr. Tredgold to complete the purchase of the schooner, the views of the latter gentleman coinciding so exactly with those of Mr. Stobell that Mr. Chalk was compelled to listen to the same lecture twice.

Under this infliction his spirits began to droop, nor did they revive until, from the ferry-boat, his eyes fell upon the masts of the Fair Emily, and the trim figure of Captain Brisket standing at the foot of the steps awaiting their arrival.

“We’ve had a stroke of good luck, gentlemen,” said Brisket, in a husky whisper, as they followed him up the steps.  “See that man?”

He pointed to a thin, dismal-looking man, standing a yard or two away, who was trying to appear unconscious of their scrutiny.

[Illustration:  “He pointed to a thin, dismal-looking man.”]

“Peter Duckett,” said Brisket, in the same satisfied whisper.

Mr. Stobell, ever willing for a free show, stared at the dismal man and groped in the recesses of his memory.  The name seemed familiar.

“The man who ate three dozen hard-boiled eggs in four minutes?” he asked, with a little excitement natural in the circumstances.

Captain Brisket stared at him.  “No; Peter Duckett, the finest mate that ever sailed,” he said, with a flourish.  “We’re lucky to have the chance of getting him, I can tell you.  To see him handle sailormen is a revelation; to see him handle a ship——­”

He broke off and shook his head with the air of a man who despaired of doing justice to his subject.  “These are the gentlemen, Peter,” he said, introducing them with a wave of his hand.

Mr. Duckett raised his cap, and tugging at a small patch of reddish-brown hair strangely resembling a door-mat in texture, which grew at the base of his chin, cleared his throat and said it was a fine morning.

“Not much of a talker is Peter,” said the genial Brisket.  “He’s a doer; that’s what he is-a doer.  Now, if you’re willing—­and I hope you are—­ he’ll come aboard with us and talk the matter over.”

This proposition being assented to after a little delay on the part of Mr. Stobell, who appeared to think Mr. Duckett’s lack of connection with the hard-boiled eggs somewhat suspicious, they proceeded to Todd’s Wharf and made a thorough inspection of the schooner.  Mr. Chalk’s eyes grew bright and his step elastic.  He roamed from forecastle to cabin and from cabin to galley, and, his practice with the crow’s-nest in Dialstone Lane standing him in good stead, wound up by ascending to the masthead and waving to his astonished friends below.